


branded

by blobfish_miffy



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Author Is Sleep Deprived, First Kiss, GOSH, George Needs a Hug, Historical Inaccuracy, Hitchhiking, Jealousy, John is lowkey annoying, M/M, Making Out, One-Sided Attraction, Paul is Oblivious?, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Slurs, Sort Of, Time Skips, Underage Drinking, alternative ending, and paul and john are pining for each other, author also doesn't know how to tag, author needed to get it out, briefly, george is pining for paul so hard, george is sad, it's honestly quite painful, nor write a summary or a title, paul needs to set his priorities straight, there's a lot of sadness and jealousy in this, they're still the quarrymen, unbeta'd we die like men, why isn't that a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2020-10-17 23:29:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20629331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy
Summary: Paul sighed, then, and brought their mouths together.It was as if all the nerves in his body were tensed, coiled up like the shrilly singing springs of the old mattress under their bodies, rigid like the harsh and unforgiving hardwood of his mam's new kitchen table. He felt both scared and excited, unable to pull away, the feeling of Paul's mouth against his own almost too much to properly fathom. But Paul's mouth was indeed there, indeed moving against Geo's hesitantly, and indeed: they werekissing.George Harrison is fourteen and might just have a crush on his best friend - a boy who has stopped thinking about him for a while now.And that hurts.**Chapter two is an alternative ending to the fanfiction.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alltidvinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alltidvinter/gifts).

> Hi there. It me.  
After a bout of illness left me with free time that I should've been spending on homework I got round to writing this. The ever-so-lovely Syb(I love you endlessly) helped me gain the inspiration I needed for this fic, so here it is! 10.5k of McHarrison Angst. I hope you enjoy.

James Paul McCartney met John Winston Lennon on the 6th of July 1957 in St. Peter’s Church in Woolton, Liverpool. It had been a damp and hot day, the moisture in the air probably only aiding to the electric current passing through their locked gaze. It was there, at that date, that Paul and John, two complete strangers, became John-and-Paul as per divine command: they had become two halves of the same whole, linked together for eternity.

Had George Harrison been there to see this pivotal moment in history take place and had he known the effects of this meeting, he would’ve screeched at the heavens to stop being such a bitch to him before dragging Paul home to play guitar and listen to the radio. But George hadn’t been there, because it had been dinnertime and he’d been fourteen and he never dared to anger his mam, as she was a scary, scary woman when angry.

It was a slow, tiny stream at first, George noticed. Whenever Paul came over – which was almost every day – and whenever they talked of things other than music, the subject would always go off course and somehow land on John. To George, stomach crawling with a feeling he couldn’t quite decipher, this never failed to feel like a bum note in a guitar solo or the drummer being off. The discomfort every time their conversations trailed off to John, Paul babbling about the lad with a dreamy look in his pretty eyes, was enough for George to feel more insecure than ever. He’d curl over his guitar and clutch it close to his chest in a protective manner, acting as if the plywood would guard his heart from hurt.

John was older and cooler than George. He smoked regularly, got drunk regularly, looked like a ted with his messy, curly quiff and big boots and drainpipe trousers and rolled up sleeves; it wasn’t particularly surprising why Paul had already become so taken by the older lad, even if he couldn’t play guitar to save his life (or, so Paul had told him once, giggling). One time Paul’d dragged him along to a _practice _of John’s band: a rag-tag gathering of dirty boys who laughed too loud and made decent music that old people hated but George reluctantly admitted was okay to listen to. The entire night he’d been seated off to the side, only half-listening to Ivan’s usual endless stream of word-vomit and fully staring at Paul and John in the other corner, bent over their guitars and giggling silently at each other. Every time Paul reached out to adjust John’s fingers on the strings, George’s stomach churned, and every time John let his hand linger on Paul’s shoulder with a soft smile, George’s heart clenched. He didn’t exactly know why he felt that way, couldn’t figure out why his blood boiled by the sheer mention of John out of Paul’s mouth, but he knew for certain that it wasn’t anything positive. And when John at some point during the evening looked away from Paul, straight at George, and _smirked, _George almost jumped up and throttled him. Almost.

But he didn’t, thankfully, because he’d not yet hit his growth-spurt yet and could probably fit one-and-a-half-times in John, and even though he’d taken on lads bigger than John and beat them he wasn’t too sure about beating this Lennon figure – the boy walked around with a black eye, bruised knuckles, and a smug look on his stupid face more often than not, so he would’ve been killed for sure.

Regardless, when Paul and George were on their way back home after practice Paul continued to babble about John’s… _John-ness _like the lad was bloody Queen Elizabeth and he was one of those mothers who adored the Royal Family too much. _He’s improved, Geo! _and _it’s fun there, innit? _and other bull-_shite _things that made George want to rip ‘is ears off by the time they’d reached Paul’s stop.

“Oh!” Paul then said, and he turned around just before he got off. “Me da’ said I should go on holiday this year, with me friends. So I thought- I thought we could go hitchhiking’. Jus’ the two of us. What do ye think?”

George blinked in surprise, not completely processing what Paul had just asked of him. “Sure,” he answered slowly. _“Yeah,_ sure.”

Paul, in return, beamed at him before jumping out onto the pavement. “Alright!” he yelled, just before the doors closed, “see ye tomorrow, we’ll plan it – it’s gonna be fun!”

_Hitchhiking, _George realised as the bus turned into another street, actually gave him the opportunity to talk and hang out with Paul without having bloody _Lennon _sniffing around all the damn time. As the reality of their future activity slowly began to sink in, he became more and more excited, up until the point he was almost bouncing in his seat when the bus finally reached his stop. He _skipped _out of the vehicle, yelling a thanks at the driver as he went, before he ran home.

That next morning he was downstairs earlier than usual, airily asking whether he could go, and when his da’ muttered an _“alright” _from behind his newspaper and his mam agreed with a sigh and a smile he couldn’t _believe_ his luck. Paul and he spent the next couple of days planning and doing chores for some extra money and before he knew it, he was on his way with his best mate, hitchhiking through Wales. They spent their days walking and climbing in backseats of cars, making polite conversations with the drivers. They would walk into pubs with the question if they could get a bed to sleep in if they did some work and would thank the people profusely if they answered positively. The beds were usually made for only one person, but sleeping top ‘n tail gave them the room they needed. Though Paul had the tendency to stick his stinky toes up George’s nose and George had the tendency to curl up and bang his knees against Paul’s stomach, it was comfortable.

“Gotta say, though, mate,” Paul then said one evening as they got ready for bed, “ain’t no way I’m gonna sleep with yer feet in me face.”

“Says _you,”_ George snorted, pulling his undershirt over his head and throwing it on his backpack, before quickly slipping on his pyjama shirt. “Ye haven’t changed yer socks in a week, son, and all ye do is kickin’ ‘em against me poor nose.”

“The _agony,”_ Paul gasped, slapping the bedspread with a smile, “the horror!”

“Fuckin’ lethal, those toes of yours,” George retorted, and he grinned at Paul’s cackle. “But what’d you want to do then? Ask for a wash first?”

“No, no, no, not yet.” Paul scooted a little closer to the wall and pointed at the free space. “You sleep ‘ere. With yer head on the pillow, like. Right here.”

“You mean no top ‘n tail, then?” George paused, heart skipping a beat as he shuffled out of his trousers and squinted at his mate. “You sure? You know I get clingy in my sleep-”

Paul’s pretty eyebrows shot up and he looked away, no doubt remembering all the times he woke up with George tangled around him like a boa constrictor, before he shook his head with a smile. “It’s fine. It’s a cold night, anyway, might like sharin’ some body warmth.”

George shrugged, jumping to get his pyjama bottoms over his non-existent arse before sliding into bed with his heart in his throat.

It was _stupid _to be nervous, George reckoned. _Stupid, _because they’d slept in the same bed numerous times before and it’d never been weird, and he shuffled until he’d found a comfortable spot. Paul’s arm was less than an inch from his, radiating body warmth, and he wiggled a little closer.

“Cold?” Paul muttered, though, to his credit, he didn’t shuffle closer to the wall. At George’s silent nod he sighed, muttering a _me too _and a _now turn off the lights, will ye? _George silently turned the bedside light off before settling completely, closing his eyes and relaxing into the pillow. Paul moved next to him, eventually sort of settling with the length of his body pressed against George’s, and George _thought _he heard a quickened heartbeat – about as quick as his own.

“You ever kissed someone before?”

George’s eyes snapped open. _“What kinda question-”_

“Perfectly normal, innit?” he turned to look at Paul, who still seemed to be as wide awake as George was. “Jus’ curious, that’s all.”

George swallowed, licked his lips. “Once,” he said honestly. “On holiday. Lizzy was her name, and she jus’ kissed me before we left.”

“Tongue?”

“I-” he took a sharp, short breath. “A little.”

“Gear,” Paul nodded, a contemplative look on his face. “That’s gear. I kissed one girl I sat next to during Maths last year, once. She just shoved ‘er tongue in. It was _disgusting.”_

“Who?”

“Don’t remember ‘er name,” Paul shrugged, “she and her parents moved away a week later.”

“Oh.” He paused as he stared at the darkness of the ceiling, hoping to God that spiders weren’t staring right back. “Was it really that gross?”

“What?”

“With tongue.”

Paul shifted next to him. “A little. The way it happened, anyway. Felt like a slug.”

George almost choked on air. “That’s… that’s _disgusting.”_

“I know!”

“Lizzy only licked my lip.” George frowned at the dark ceiling before turning his head again a little. “I wonder what it’s like to _actually _kiss. Proper, like.”

Paul sat up. “Me too. Without the slug.”

George snickered into the pillow, and Paul laughed from above him. _Without the slug, _yeah. That would be nice, probably. He didn’t really get the appeal of _kissing _yet, but he’d seen people do it in movies already. And when Lizzy’d pressed her mouth to his, his heart had raced and his cheeks had flushed and he’d felt giddy for _hours _afterwards. Was that supposed to happen with kissing? Was it supposed to make you feel like you were free-falling?

“We can try,” Paul muttered into the silence all of a sudden, and George sat up now too. He was confused, though he thought he might know where this was going. But that _couldn’t _be it, right? That couldn’t? Paul couldn’t-

“You mean-”

Paul sighed, then, and brought their mouths together.

It was as if all the nerves in his body were tensed, coiled up like the shrilly singing springs of the old mattress under their bodies, rigid like the harsh and unforgiving hardwood of his mam's new kitchen table. He felt both scared and excited, unable to pull away, the feeling of Paul's mouth against his own almost too much to properly fathom. But Paul's mouth was indeed there, indeed moving against Geo's hesitantly, and indeed: they were _kissing. _

Which was _wrong_ because it was _queer _and queer was_ weird- _but then again, they were weird, weren't they? Before John, they’d spend hours of the day with their ears pressed against the radio and tummies pressed against the body of their guitars and fingers dancing over the strings, in search of that perfect chord, the chord they needed. They’d spend hours of the day, hours of their _free time_ dissecting melodies and lyrics instead of being outside chasing skirts and looking intimidating on street corners with their coiffed hair and new drainies and half-smoked ciggies they always shared, because neither of the two of them could smoke one cig on their own yet. Before John they were weird together, and now Paul was weird and cool with John and George was weird on his own - but it didn’t matter right now. It didn’t matter right now, because now it was Paul-and-George again and they were _kissing. _

Then Paul made a short, impatient, almost _insecure _noise against George's silent lips and something passed through George. A current, a tidal wave of _feeling _and _warmth_ and _holy **shit, **mate _and then Paul pulled back, wide-eyed and red-faced, and he swallowed.

_“Like that,”_ he whispered, gaze flitting between George’s eyes and mouth.

But _“like that”_ wasn’t enough – he wanted _more. _It was silly and it was weird but he wanted _more, _wanted to kiss his best mate again, wanted to move his mouth against Paul’s again. George exhaled shakily, placing a trembling hand on Paul’s round cheek and curling his fingers just behind Paul’s ear.

“No,” he then said, and he wasn’t surprised to hear that his voice was incredibly unsteady, “no, tha’ can’t be right – there’s no tongue. _Show me again.”_

Paul surged forward.

He kissed little harder this time, less careful and more daring. It was wet and weird and _exciting _when Paul darted his tongue against George's lower lip as if to taste him, inching closer and placing a nervous hand on George's clothed, skinny waist, and something stirred deep inside his groin. Paul tasted like the stew they’d eaten two hours ago and the milk they’d drunk before bed and there was so much spit that it was almost gross, but the kiss was _exhilarating. _Every last inch of his body was on fire, every hair standing up, his heart beating at an incredible pace. George tilted his head slightly like he’d seen men do in the romance movies he was dragged along to sometimes and their noses squished against each other, making Paul snicker into his mouth before he cut himself off with a gasp as George managed to deepen the kiss even further.

And as the moon climbed higher and higher into the sky, they were there in their own little bubble, safe in bed with sweaty clothes and oily hair and stinky socks, laughing into each other’s mouths and falling asleep in each other’s arms.

The next days were spent with sneaking starry-eyed looks at a red-faced Paul, sharing grins and giggles with him throughout the day, and sharing warmth and comfort with him during the night. They charmed their way into people's guest rooms, killed rogue house-spiders, paid for a meal by helping out in the garden or in the kitchen or on the fields.

_"Such handsome, polite lads," _he'd heard the generous wife of a pub-owner say one night, _"must be great friends, they are." _

He’d looked at Paul at that, who’d just grinned at him with a wink, and he’d grinned back with flaming cheeks and racing heart. _They were _great friends – they’d just done something that most friends didn’t really _do. _And it was _fine, _everything was _fine _and George didn’t feel any different about Paul. Their friendship was strong as ever. Now that the curiosity was out of the way, there was no way for either of them to fuck up terribly by being _weird _about it. They’d done what they wanted to try, it was enjoyable, and now they were going to shut up about it.

But… _was _their friendship strong as ever? Even after the kiss, even after the amazed gazes and red cheeks and shy grins Paul _still _couldn’t stop talking about John. It wasn’t like he wasn’t interested in what George had to say now, because he (differently from when they were in Liverpool) _was _genuinely listening to George’s dry-sounding drawl, but all of his attention was still on _John. _

When the lad had casually swaggered into their life, smelling like beer and sweat, wearing something that could've been a sneer and a smirk, and playing fuckin' _banjo-chords _on that _bull-shite_ guitar of his, something had changed. An extra cog in the machine, a shift of the axis of the earth, a wrinkle smoothed out in the fabric of space and time; it was something big, something that made George feel both excited and saddened. Excited because it could mean something in the deeper meaning of the universe, something he’d been slightly interested in since early childhood, but saddened because part of that change was apparently basically losing someone dear to him.

George had been able to forget about all of those worries during their little holiday. For two weeks or so, George had been able to pretend that Paul was again all his, and he was Paul’s, and they were no-one else’s. Just the two of them against the world, flipping the bird at the sea and blowing kisses at the sky. For a brief moment during the night, under the covers in an extra room of a pub that allowed them free stay for the night, they’d been fully connected in a way George had never deemed possible. But now that they were back in the real world, George realised that his perfect little fantasy was no more than that: a fantasy.

The first hour after they’d resurfaced in Liverpool John had already been there, skipping around Paul like a lovesick puppy and happily barking something about new chords he taught himself in Paul’s sorely-missed absence. He’d slung his arm around Paul’s neck, had roughly ruffled George’s hair, and had dragged them along to the pub that he’d suddenly _“forgotten”_ George couldn’t get into, being fourteen goin’ on fifteen and looking nine goin’ on ten, but Paul’d winked at the guy in the door and George had lowered his hat and suddenly they’d been inside, drinking a pint and talking.

Well, Paul’d talked and John’d asked questions and George’d stayed silent in his corner of the booth, trying his best to get used to the bitter taste of beer and acting like he wasn’t bothered by being ignored. Because suddenly, it hadn’t been Paul-and-George anymore. It hadn’t even been even John-and-Paul-and-George, it had just been John-and-Paul – and John always looked at Paul like the lad had personally sprinkled stars across the velvet of the night-sky and Paul always looked at John like the bastard personally pulled the sun across the heavens, and George always wasn’t anything more than a vague cloud passing by.

There was this... electricity when they looked at each other, this _zap _and _boom_ that wasn't there when Paul and George would lock gazes. Paul _giggled _too much when John was present, like he was a goddamn _bird, _and John would try too hard to make Paul giggle. He appeared to be as desperate for Paul's smile as Paul was desperate for John's approval and apparently, _apparently,_ it was a match made in heaven. And no matter how much George would sulk and feel bad for himself and retreat back into his old, trusty, shy and sneering self, Paul wouldn't even _look _at him. 

It was all about John now. _John Winston Lennon_, a boy who made up non-existent lyrics when he'd get too drunk to remember the proper ones and a boy who couldn't even play the guitar _half _as well as George could. A boy who was _middle class _but acted like he were part of the lower, as if he'd grown up in a poor family and had gone to bed hungry at least once a week because there wasn't enough money to feed the entire family; a boy who made his accent rougher than George's to make himself look tough, who'd pull funny faces to make Paul laugh and made sneering comments whenever George was so much _present _because George was apparently _too young_ to be a true member of John Lennon's little clan of dirty wannabe-teds with greasy quiffs and smelly clothes.

Paul rambled _on and on and on _about this boy, this boy who was picking up playing actual guitar so quickly and so well and who smelled like pine when he didn't smell like alcohol and cigarettes and he had _glasses Geo did you know?? of course I didn't he doesn't wear them _and, God, this boy had Paul's lovely, sad eyes _sparkle like gems_ whenever John was mentioned. It didn't_ feel _right; John wasn't supposed to be the only one to make Paulie laugh till he cried because that was _Georgie's _job, used to be, had been since they met. It was _George _who made the snarky comments that had Paul giggle and shake and snort like a little boy and it was _George _who’d kissed Paul so hard once that the boy’d gasped and it was _George _who crawled into bed with Paul after his mam died and whispered little words of comfort in his ear and brushed his nose comfortingly across his jawline and it was _George_ who fended off anyone who dared to attack Paul for looking like a poof or looking like he was about to cry because _his mam was dead _and it wasn't_ John _who'd done all that, it was _George_, so how dare he-?

If Paul had noticed that George was feeling a little _(VERY)_ abandoned he didn't show it, stubbornly continuing to slip _John _into any conversation they had now - as if George usually wasn't there when Paul's wild stories would take place, as if Paul hadn't dragged him along and sat him down to play along with the rest of John's group more times than George could count on his fingers now. He now had to spend bloody _hours_ staring down John-and-Paul bent over their guitars and figuring out chords and laughing silently like _Paul-and-George _used to, had to spend hours ignoring John's smug glances when Paul would dismiss George again for the hundredth time because _oh well, Geo, John said something just now- can you wait for a mo'? _and John would shout something along the lines of _didn't yer mam teach ye not to interrupt, lad? _and they'd all laugh, all those cool, gross, _disgusting_ older boys with _experience _who didn't wash their hands after going to the loo or after sticking their grubby little fingers up a bird's skirt would _laugh _because he was the youngest, was the little unintimidating baby of the group even if he played guitar better than _any _of those bloody bastards.

And as summer came to an end and September rolled around, George noticed that school rides were about John too, now, not just about music, because _apparently_ John and music had become synonymous for Paul. Lunch was now filled with _John plus music _and _hey Geo did you know John doesn't like peas? _and _John's improving quickly, y'know _and George wanted to snap that he didn't know Paul was such a _queer _that he couldn't stop talking about his crush like a flustered, swooning_ bird _but he held himself back, not wanting to lose the only strong friendship he had- even if it was deteriorating at an alarming rate. Besides, it'd be hypocritical too: the only thing he was able to think about apart from music was _Paul Paul Paul_ and his stupidly beautiful _mouth _and _eyes _and _smile _and how his long fingers slid over the strings of his upside-down-guitar and danced through the chord progressions. It was stupid and embarrassing to George, especially when he'd be curled up into a cold, silent ball in his bed during the late hours of the night, how the boy he couldn't bloody _stop _thinking about didn't seem to _bother_ thinking about _George_ anymore.

_But they’d **kissed, **hadn’t they? They’d kissed and Paul had fuckin’ **gasped **in ecstasy and now he was ignoring him like it never happened, like they’d never kissed, like their hands hadn’t trembled as they gripped each other. It was **bullshit **and it was, so, so painful-_

Paul had apparently not lost all memories of his friendship with George though, proving that when he showed up one evening with his guitar case in one hand and a ciggie in the other, hair falling in gelled curls across his smooth forehead. He looked so beautiful George wanted to close the door in his _stupidly _pretty face, but Paul was looking at him with such intensity, such _need _that he abandoned that idea quicker than he could hoover up a bowl of custard. George was all ears for Paul's frantic yet enthusiastic babbling about music until it suddenly included _John _again, because John had a _band _that made _music _that Paul felt the need to inform him on anyway even though George had _been at practice endless times _and he couldn't stop his face from looking more annoyed that usual. Paul, too emerged in thoughts of _John_ _Winston Lennon _did not notice the sudden change in attentiveness in his _used-to-be-best-friend _and chattered on for minutes; it wasn't until he suddenly said something about _"audition again" _and _"now" _that George snapped out of his surly daydreaming and choked on his cigarette. Paul patiently waited for George to stop coughing before he explained that _you see, Geo, John’s **finally** willin’ to give ye a chance and that’s **gear, **_and that _you're gear, Geo, and they're gear, and it'll be a **perfect **fit and then we can play together again!! _and George didn't have the gall to tell Paul that it wasn't_ George's _fault that they hadn't truly played together in so long. But he also didn't have the gall to say no, as it took only one bloody _please _from Paul before he was suddenly sitting on the roof of a fuckin' double-decker, guitar in his lap, Paul _vibrating_ with anticipation across from him and John in his peripheral vision, looking blank-faced yet moody. He played _Raunchy _all the way through without so much blinking because he _could, _and the fact that John's jaw had suddenly gone a little slack and Paul was positively _beaming_ actually made him feel a little better. John reckoned he was _still _too young but _mate, yer the best player in Liddypool _and Paul cheerfully added they could draw a moustache on upper lip with charcoal to make him look older and then _John _looked at _Paul _with eyes _shining _with adoration and a _fuckin' stupid grin_ and Paul _giggled _at John and reached out to lovingly push the lad's knee- 

George felt a little nauseous all of a sudden, pride of his flawless audition dissipating until there was no more than a miniscule smouldering ember left. _I'm no more than a background character now,_ he realised as he watched the little exchange between John and Paul with green-tinted vision. They'd plopped themselves in their own little bubble, their own, secluded,_ impenetrable _bubble, and nothing else mattered anymore. _Could've been a fuckin' tree and it would be no different. _

As they slowly rose in recognition, they lost most of their members to school and jobs. The _Quarrymen, _as John still _insisted _on calling them, now consisted of three guitarists - and no drummer. They’d search through Liverpool for one every time they wanted to perform and though each drummer differed in skill and general likability, it was fine. Being a trio now, though, meant that George felt more like an outsider by the day.

John and Paul were _enthralled _by each other at this point, spending more time together than they ever did with any of their other friends. Which would’ve been _fine, _y’know, if George hadn’t slowly realised less over a year ago that he was sadly very much so in love with his best friend – who seemed to be very much in love with John Lennon.

And George _liked _John, now. Sure, he was still a raging arsehole with a drinking problem and a sneering wit, but who’s to say George wasn’t either? They bonded over their love for fast songs and hair grease and the fact that Paul McCartney was too pretty for his own good, often acting as a bloody bodyguards – though John looked a whole lot more intimidating, being eighteen and broad shouldered and not _sixteen _and _twig-like – _but it seemed that Paul needed it as he often still got accused of being a “dirty poof”, simply because it looked like he groomed his eyebrows and used mascara.

Regardless, they accepted each other now- if accepting meant annoying the fuck out of each other with teasing remarks and sneering comments and being constantly involved in playful physical and intellectual battles. Paul appeared to be pleased by this development, his two best friends finally getting along _decently. _

But it wasn’t like George general attitude towards them had changed on a significant level. Sure, he was a lot less moody whenever it was the three of them because John genuinely _made him laugh, _but the near-constant _flirting _happening in front of them between John and _Paul _didn’t do great things for his mood. He tended to be more reserved towards them now, no longer enjoying deep conversations with Paul. Paul appeared to be oblivious to it and John was always in for some shallow conversational material after three pints and a night of performing, so there was no reason for George to _stop _doing it. It felt more secure anyway, not laying any of his feelings bare.

Alcohol sadly always had some effects. Just enough was good for a pleasant buzz, a slightly looser mouth, and a slightly less uptight feeling. And though he minded the whole _McLennon _bullshit happening right in front of his bloody nose, he’d always still managed to hold himself together.

With more alcohol he had to be careful, easily running his mouth and having his emotions take over. The nights where Paul gave him subsequent attention were always the best; he could get as pissed as he’d like and Paul would drag him home with a sloppy, drunk grin and a tired wave at John and they’d crash in bed together, pressed against each other with faces buried in stiff hairdo’s and sweaty necks. It was then, with closed eyes and a twirling world, that George could briefly pretend that he had Paul and Paul had him and that John was their very much straight best friend who didn’t even think of flirting with Paul. Those moment were moments of content, drunk bliss, even if the morning afters were a bit less pleasant.

Sadly, Paul’d recently given him less attention than usual. He’d flitted around John like a bird, touching his biceps and his chest and giggling at every joke, and John would stare back with a stupid grin and red cheeks and shining eyes, and it was _disgusting. _And it _hurt. _Getting drunk wasn’t exactly the smartest thing in the world to do, George knew that while he’d been chugging his fourth drink since Paul’s sudden disappearance, but he felt like it anyway. Even if the alcohol made his tongue loose and his emotions grow trifold.

Paul, in particular, always got a bit miffed when George got plastered without him. It either had to do with his protective, older brother-like attitude towards George or because he didn’t like being left out. George figured it was probably both. And, now that George had gotten absolutely shitfaced without Paul (because he was with John, and George got _sad _and _jealous) _and Paul was suddenly pulling him out of the pub in a huff, George realised that it was _without a doubt _both.

He was being dragged along over the pavement, staggering on his feet, watching as the stars above the city spun around in perfect circles. Paul’s hand fit snugly around his wrist as the older boy tugged him back home, muttering _“why’d you do that without me?” _and _“could’ve calmed the fuck down, too,” _under his breath. George wasn’t sure whether Paul was taking him home or _home home, _but he didn’t really care. Paul was basically holding his hand and sometimes their hips brushed by accident and it felt _great, _even if his head was spinning and he was actually kind of hungry and Paul kept up a reasonably fast pace.

It didn’t take long for George to slowly recognise the streets he grew up in, and he wasn’t very surprised when Paul ultimately led him up to the front door of quaint Harrison-residence, grabbing the key from under the flower-pot like he did it daily.

Well, he did it _weekly, _but that was unimportant information.

“Take of yer shoes,” Paul demanded when they’d stumbled inside, voice just above a whisper, and George clumsily complied. He kicked off his boots and shrugged out of his jacket, standing on tippy toes to hang it on the coat rack; Paul caught him when he almost lost his balance.

The trip up the stairs wasn’t that hard, having walked those stairs for years now, but he did end up fumbling with the doorknob of his bedroom door as Paul impatiently and tiredly leaned against him. He opened the door, dropping himself on the bed with a groan. Paul shrugged out of his jacket and closed the door, quickly dropping himself into the chair next to George’s bed.

“Why the fuck” Paul said lowly, and he fluttered his fingers through the air, “did ye drink so much? Without me?”

George blinked sluggishly. “I _didn’t.”_

_“Yes, you did.”_ Paul started to chew on his thumb. “Christ, mate. We were havin’ a couple of pints and I go to John for one moment and come back and you’ve downed three more-”

“Ah! There it is,” George sat up slightly, slowly. He didn’t want to get sick and the mere mention of John already had his bloody stomach churning with jealousy. “There’s yer reason. ‘Ave fun with it, stick it up yer arse-”

“Me _leaving _is because you decided to get more pissed than we’d planned on gettin’?” Paul asked _(slurred?)_ incredulously. “Are ye _serious??” _

_“No,”_ George groaned at the ceiling. “Read _deeper _between the lines, son!”

There was a brief moment of silence as Paul chewed on that and George merely stared at his feet. Then: “Because I went to _John?”_

George stayed silent and sighed through his nose.

_“John?” _Paul repeated, “John? Ye got drunk because I left ye to go to John? Why- that’s so _childish, _Geo-”

There was a sudden surge of an overwhelming feeling in his body, something he identified as a mix of desperation and annoyance and the ever-present simmering jealousy.

"Well, it used to be Paul-and-George, didn't it?" he snapped, heart clenching at the way Paul flinched away from him. But he couldn't find it in himself to stop, too frustrated, too many pent-up insecurities swirling around in his guts. His eyes _burned._ "It was jus' Paul-and-George," he repeated, willing his tears back. "Not John-and-Paul and then maybe, jus' maybe George- but now it _is_ Maybe George, ain't it? It's John-and-Paul, and then all the way to the back there's George. _Maybe_ George, if he's lucky and John's not there. Fuck's sake McCartney," his voice had gone down to a choked-up whisper, "I'm not enough anymore, aren't I?" 

Paul was white-faced and fidgeting. "Yer _drunk, _Geo," he then muttered, looking at a place near George's ear, "yer drunk and ye should sleep-" 

_"So??" _George wanted to _cry. _"You're not- you're not _answerin'-" _

Paul placed his hand on George's chest, all gently and caring, and his touch felt red-hot; it burned through the cotton of his shirt, seared his skin when Paul pushed and pushed until his back hit the mattress. It felt like it'd branded him when Paul finally removed his hand _(no, please don't-) _and rested it on the colourful bedspread, the print of Paul's palm forever right there and centre on his ribcage, pulsing in sync with the beat of his heart. 

"You're not less important to me than John, Geo-" 

"No, but I _am," _he breathed, "I am and it's not fair 'cause- 'cause _I _was first-" 

Paul sighed, beautifully and insufferably. "It's not a _race, _George." 

_"Well 'e thinks it is!" _

Paul immediately surged forwards, shushing George by placing a finger over his lips, and brushed a stray look of hair away from his forehead. 

George's heart stuttered. 

"Don't yell," Paul muttered lowly, deep eyes flicking from George's eyes to his mouth. Something stirred deep inside his groin. "It's late, everyone's asleep." 

"I don't_ care, _Paul." George turned his face away and clumsily crawled upright. The world started to spin at an alarming pace again. "I jus'- I need ye to _listen _to me-" 

"I _am _listenin', but you're not makin' any _sense,_ Geo."

"Because yer not _listenin'!" _George whined tearfully and then promptly dropped his forehead against Paul's shoulder in the hope to stop his bedroom from spinning. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in the calming, familiar smell of cigarettes and sweat and beer and leather and that cheap cologne Paul always nicked from his da’s cupboard. As Paul slowly lifted hand to run his fingers through the hair at the back of George's head, the room finally calmed down and started to come to a standstill. 

"Please just tell me, Geo," Paul whispered. His breath brushed the shell of George's ear and George shivered involuntarily. "You've been in a terrible mood for weeks now, please tell me?" 

"Like- like ye don't_ know." _George slurred. "I've_ told _ye wa's wrong, I've_ said it. _I've said it 'n ye didn't_ listen _'cos ye _never_ listen t' me anymore 'cos you only listen to _Lennon-" _

“I don’t, love,” he said softly, “I listen t’ you as well-”

“No ye _don’t,” _came the stubborn reply, “ye _don’t- _not anymore.”

Paul fell silent at that, now apparently just deciding to run his nails over the back of George’s scalp. The feeling helped the beginnings of the headache fuck off properly and George almost purred, but he ended up just tilting his face up a tad bit and nuzzling his face in the crook of Paul’s neck. Paul shivered noticeably when the tip of George’s nose tickled Paul’s jugular.

“You comfortable?” was then the only thing Paul said, sounding slightly amused. George just grunted in agreement, too content to speak, and pressed his face a little more against Paul’s neck. The fingers went up a little, now apparently having decided to run from his hairline to his neck; George felt a shiver pass down his spine.

“Y’know,” Paul muttered, “yer breath tickles a lil’.”

George teasingly mouthed the place where Paul’s shoulder and neck connected, covering the area with unintentional, open-mouthed kisses, and Paul shook himself away with a breathless giggle. George caught himself just in time before falling forwards.

He looked up, blinking at the giggling form that was Paul McCartney; his cheeks were a little red – noticeable even in the moonlight – and his eyes were twinkling happily, crinkled at the corners from his gigantic smile. The sheer _joy _on his face, together with the dimple in his left cheek and his endless, dark and full lashes made him look so _beautiful, _almost more ethereal than he already was, that George’s heart skipped a beat. He was sure he was grinning stupidly at this point, wide and drunk, with an adoring stare.

_“You’re beautiful,”_ he blurted, regretting the words as soon as they’d left his mouth.

Paul stilled, grin shrinking until it was no more than a small, closed-mouthed smile. “You think so?”

A sharp intake of breath, a touch of their knees. “I _know _so.”

“Some reckon I’m too… _feminine, _y’know?” he said softly. “Like a bird. Mike does it, Pete, da’ sometimes – John, too. _“ye look like a **bird,”**_ ‘e says, _“too pretty”.”_

“Well,” George hissed, mood having plummeted after the mention of John, “Lennon doesn’t know _shite. _‘e jus’- ‘e jus’ can’t admit to another lad tha’ he’s handsome. ‘fraid of soundin’ like a queer or somethin’.”

“That’s an okay thing to fear,” Paul replied, a hint of defensiveness to his voice. “I wouldn’t wanna be called a… a poof, y’know?” after a couple of seconds of silence, Paul leaned forward a bit. “Would _you?”_

Panic flared up in his chest. _“No,” _he said, and he wasn’t lying – even if his feelings were very much _gay. _“No, I wouldn’t. Even if I _was_, then I still wouldn’t want to be called one.”

Paul squinted at him. “Demeanin’, innit? Would rather jus’ be called _gay, _or _queer _maybe.”

“Yeah,” George answered. He swallowed. “If ye were one.”

Paul just smiled.

They were silent for a little while younger. Pauls hand had now landed on George’s knee and his fingers were drawing small circles over the rough material of his trousers. George had now decided to lean back on his hands and just look at the ceiling, watching as it twirled elegantly under his gaze all while focusing on the feeling of Paul’s hands on his leg.

“I’ve got a small question, mate,” Paul then muttered, and though George’s heart started to beat at an incredible pace he merely answered with a grunt. Paul took a deep breath before continuing. “I’m jus’- ye didn’t answer before. Not clearly anyway. Jus’ want to know why you’ve been sorta… been so weird with me- me ‘n John, then.”

Something hot and painful exploded in George’s chest, and he started to breathe more heavily.

“I don’t like it, y’know?” Paul continued. “We talk, we do that, but ye seem so closed off all the damn time, right? An’ it- it makes me- you said it ‘ad to do with John?”

George’s hands trembled, and his eyes were involuntarily burning again. His stomach felt tied up in knots and this back-and-forth from anger to content back to anger was probably not good at all for the calm of his mind. “Yeah,” he answered dumbly, blinking at nothing in particular. “Yeah.”

“Can you-” a deep breath, _“why?”_

“He’s yer erry- _ev’rythin’_, now,” he choked out. “An’ I’m nothin’.” He paused, taking one, shuddering breath. “I fuckin’ _hate _ye sometimes.”

_“You don’t mean that.” _Paul almost _demanded, _now yanking at George’s T-shirt harshly. George lolled his head forwards and stared at Paul, who was red-cheeked and grimacing and bouncing his leg. “You _don’t, _do ye, Geo? Geo, _do you?”_

"Yer a fuckin' arse who- who _shoves _aside 'is mates whennies found summun- sum- _someone _better," George slurred angrily, prying Paul’s fingers away from his shirt. “An’ I don’t _get it. _Wha’ better is _John _than me, anyway? Fights erryone 'e comes across, drinks till 'e passes out, _can't play the bloody guitar-" _

"He can_ now, _George-" 

"Yeah,_ barely." _

“You’re bein’ mean,” Paul panted, “you’re bein’ _mean _an’ you’re _drunk _an’ I don’t believe ye, I don’t-”

George wanted to scream; he wanted to either break down and cry pathetically or headbutt Paul so hard he'd get amnesia and forget all about bloody _John Lennon, _but either options would probably not be the best and only _prove _to Paul that that awful bitch of a John was a better friend than George had ever been. 

So, he leaned forward, grasped Paul’s face in his hands, and kissed him - which, arguably, wouldn't guarantee Paul suddenly finding George better than John.

Paul's mouth still fit on his like it had that summer of ‘57. Two mouldable puzzle pieces shoved together in a way that might mean they belonged together; but George had his eyes closed, too afraid of seeing a reaction of disgust on Paul's face, and thus couldn't check whether the colours even matched. 

Oh, how risky this action was: it wasn’t necessarily so that he couldn’t, but that he _shouldn’t _admit his unbelievably romantic feelings for his best mate. People didn’t just accept… _queers. _The norm was the norm and every good young scouser was expected to follow the old guideline whether it was the last thing they do. This spontaneous display of affection… it was dangerous, it was reckless, it was entirely insane and presumably catastrophic - yet it was also passionate and desperate, George clutching Paul’s soft face between his roughened fingers and moving his mouth against the other’s, heartbeat a steady yet frantic drumroll in his chest. It was the type of drumroll none of their drummers could do, the type that was perfect for more emotional songs. If Paul didn’t feel, didn’t know, didn’t- _couldn’t _understand, George would be _shunned. _He’d be ripped to shreds, his mam stared at with pity at the market and his da’ ignored in the breakroom at work. So, he gripped Paul tighter, slid one hand from his cheek to his lower back, clutching him closer and caging him in.

And then Paul _moaned. _

His hands had travelled up, one clutching the cotton stretched over George’s chest and one gripping the back of his head almost painfully, and he fuckin’ _moaned – _all loud and girly, like. His mouth opened slightly and their tongues touched and he tasted like beer and cigarettes and George pressed himself even tighter against Paul with an incredibly embarrassing whine because _holy shit _that sound made his godforsaken _cock _twitch. He was pushed towards the bed, suddenly flat on his back and Paul above him, and they were still kissing, _oh my **God **_they were still kissing-

He slid one hand away from Paul’s face, slipping it into his shirt and scratching at the soft muscle of his stomach. Paul twitched on top of him and half-giggled – _ticklish, ticklish, ticklish – _before almost sticking his tongue down George’s throat. Girls didn’t kiss like this. The girls he’d kissed kissed like they were kissing glass, softly and carefully, closer to how their first kiss had felt – but Paul was now kissing him like a man starved, gnawing away at his lips and sucking on his tongue, and it was _amazing. _

_“Holy fuck,” _he gasped when Paul pulled away briefly for air, “holy _fuck-”_

“No fuck now,” Paul muttered, deciding to nibble on the spot where George’s jawline and earlobe almost met and eliciting a downright _embarrassing _moan from George, “jus’ this, maybe later…”

“Is this- I don’t-” Paul bit down on his neck; George’s hips involuntarily bucked, and the next words came out in a panting whine. “I don’t _understand-”_

“Don’t understand what?” Paul said gruffly, own hands now exploring the skinny figure underneath George’s shirt, fingers leaving tracks of fire in their wake. “Reckon this is a perfectly clear situation, love, we’re snoggin’-”

“Paulie, you-”

“Me?”

“What about… what about-” he took a deep breath as Paul’s ever-curious fingers brushed his crotch, cheeks flaming at this point. “I thought – _John.”_

Paul immediately stilled, slowly pulling his hand away and lifting his head from George’s neck. He stared down at George from his straddling position, quiff no longer a quiff and now no more than a mussed up, half-greasy halo around his perfect face with red cheeks and bruised, bitten lips. He was panting, blinking rapidly, and his mouth trembled. “What about John?”

“Paul-”

_“What about John, George?” _Paul bit out, voice bordering on hysteric. Any type of heat George had felt in his gut previously now disappeared, extinguished by Paul’s less-than-usual reaction. This wasn’t mere annoyance for bringing up a mutual friend during a hot ‘n heavy moment, but different. It was almost as if he were trying to forget-

“You like ‘im.” George blurted, and it wasn’t even a question. It was a statement, because he knew. He’d known for ages now. “You like John.”

Paul averted his eyes, looking almost a little feverish. “Of course I _like _John,” he sneered at the wall. “He’s my- he’s one of my _best friends, _Geo-”

_“No, not like that,”_ George sat up a little more, blinking rapidly to keep his gaze steady and the world from spinning. Paul’s eyes flicked back to his. “You- you _know _what I mean- ye _like _‘im,_ like like.”_

“That’s-” Paul swallowed, briefly looking up at the ceiling and laughing. “That’s _ridiculous _t’ bring up _now _of all times-”

_“Paul.”_

He went silent, staring down at George with cheeks that had now lost their colour and panicked, sad eyes. George was no more than a replacement now, was he? No more than a replacement to fill a little hole in Paul McCartney’s heart that John Lennon had unintentionally left. What’d happened now, then? Had John said that the queers were disgusting again? That he couldn’t imagine kissing a lad? Had Paul, with his endless staring and his amazed smiles and his loving touches, finally realised that maybe this admiration for the boy was more than simple admiration? More than a strong friendship?

Had Paul admitted it, maybe? Had he told John, and had he gotten rejected? Was that why he was being so awfully enthusiastic with George instead of John? There were endless possibilities, but they all ended on one thing: George was more a rebound than a genuine interest, better off as a friend than a _boyfriend. _

Paul climbed off him then, silently and shakily, and dragged a hand through his hair as he went looking for his coat. He’d found it quickly, slipped it on as he walked towards the door and opened it, looking back at George one last time.

“I’ll be goin’ then,” he muttered. George wanted to cry again. “Get some sleep.” He paused in the doorway, turned his head slightly in George’s direction. “See ye in the mornin’?” he then asked, quietly, a hint of insecurity in his voice.

George nodded slowly and bit down on his lip anxiously. “In the mornin’,” he whispered back. “Yeah. G’night.”

His friend just nodded before walking off. George could half hear him making his way down the stairs and putting on his boots, before quietly opening and closing the front door. And just like that, Paul was gone.

It felt a lot more permanent than it should’ve.

When George awoke to sunlight that felt like drops of acid, a stomach that seemed to have twisted itself into a knot, limbs feeling like gummies, and a head being pounded on by a hammer, he didn't know where he was for a brief second. 

Soon enough though, the cotton he'd stuck his nose into smelled like his mam's laundry detergent and the wall across from him was filled with posters and pictures he'd taped to the old, faded wallpaper once. Even in his foggy, groggy, hungover state he was pretty sure that Elvis poster had been put up last week with a lot of swearing on his part and a lot of laughter on- on- 

on Paul and John's part. 

_Paul. _

George shot upright, ignoring the way his stomach churned and groaned and whined like his nan without 'er sherry on a Friday night, and swung his legs over the bed. He was still dressed in his clothes from yesterday; his drainies felt particularly uncomfortable and itchy, his shirt was really fuckin’ sticky, and by the feeling of it his hair was somewhat still in place. He'd bloody well hope so too, considering the amount of time he'd spent on front of the mirror the night before and how much gel he'd plonked into it - but it was honestly the least of his worries, now. 

He just barely recalled the slurry half-confession of last night or this morning or _whatever _you'd call the time you've proclaimed the beauty of your best friend and bemoaned his relationship with your _other _best friend while piss-drunk at 3AM and most of all, he recalled the _kiss. _Oh, _God_… the kiss… 

George climbed onto his feet – he vaguely remembered kicking off his shoes near the door, leaning heavily on Paul – and squeezed his eyes shut, extending his arms in front of him to steady himself against his bedroom wall and prevent himself from collapsing. It was _silly _because he'd been hungover before: he'd had worse nights, with more booze and less food and less sleep and he'd felt _better _in the mornings, always able to dance his way down the stairs, gobble up the breakfast his mam'd cooked up, 'n then help his da' out in the garden or whatever. But this time, this time he felt like absolute _garbage. _

He somehow did manage to make his way down the stairs, following the faint scent of toast and sausages, and sheepishly pushed the door to the kitchen open. 

"Mornin' ma," he rasped, and Louise looked up from her book to smile at him. 

_"Afternoon," _she corrected gently with a nod at the clock next to the cross above the door, and George realised she was right after a quick glance at his watch. 

He grimaced, scratching the back of his head with trembling fingers, and pulled out a chair to sit down. "Oh." 

"No mind, love," she answered, quirking one elegant and dark eyebrow at him with a small, amused smile. "Breakfast, then? Or lunch for you, now." 

"Please," he muttered miserably, putting his head down on the solid table and not looking up until Louise plonked a cuppa down in front of his nose, together with a plate filled with toast and one egg. 

"Have at it, son," was all she said before turning back to the sausage she was reheating. "Get somethin' in tha’ tummy of yours, now." 

"God bless," George sighed, before he took a tiny, reluctant bite from his toast and a small sip of his tea. "Cannae feel worse, mum, bu' this is gear-" 

"You should calm it with drinkin', Georgie," his mam interrupted him. "Fourth time you've woken past twelve this month. If dear Paul hadn't been there to take ye home..." 

_"Paul-" _George spluttered through his tea, ignoring the way his cheeks were set ablaze and his heart started to race at the mere mention of his best friend. “What d’ye _mean, _Paul??”

“He brought you home, didn’t he?” she briefly looked at him. “Thought I heard ‘is voice.”

“I-” flashbacks of their kiss, Paul pressing him against his mattress and biting down his lip, crotches rubbing against each other- _“yeah, _yeah, he did.”

Louise turned around, crossing her arms in front of her chest and pursing her lips at him. “I don’t like that you’re puttin’ all that responsibility on the lad, George,” she tutted, waving her spatula threateningly in his direction. “He’s been takin’ ye home so often these past few months, because you’re too drunk to walk in a straight line – and why didn’t ‘e sleep over last night, too? Did you kick ‘im out?”

“I- I didn’t, ma!” he grumbled through a mouthful of toast and egg. “I swear! ‘e just left, and I fell asleep after tha’! Besides, _Paul’s _the arse gettin’ me pissed, y’know…”

"Of course he isn’t, and you know it!" she shushed, turning around with the frying pan in hand and the spatula in the other. She deposited the sausage on his plate, dripping some grease on his dry-as-bollocks toast as she went. “He came by this mornin’, you see? You were still out cold, and he looked a tad bit concerned, but told me to tell you to meet ‘im at his place. Poor boy looked like he hadn’t slept a wink- must be because of yer _habits, _Geo.”

"Sure, it were my _habits," _he muttered, suddenly having a lot of difficulty getting his egg to slide down his oesophagus as he thought about their snog again. "Of course. Habits." 

She placed the pan back on the stove and seated herself across from him, frowning slightly. "Did something happen last night?" 

_“No,”_ George said too quickly, clearing his throat to get rid of the remains of the egg. “No. Nothin’ happened. Jus’ a normal night, normal evenin’ at the pub, no fightin’-”

“Well I’m glad,” she said, before she looked at him with those deep eyes of hers that seemed to stare right into his soul. Paul told him once he inherited that stare, that concerned _I’m-looking-through-you _stare – and there he went, thinking about _Paul _again. “Wouldn’t want you to be upset about somethin’.”

“Just me headache,” George lied, sheepishly cutting a piece of his sausage off with the spare knife on the table before scooping it up with his toast. “Nothin’ more, mum.”

She stared at him for a little while longer, and he started to sweat a little. “Hm,” she then hummed after a minute or two, standing up and taking off her apron before smoothing out her dress, “well. I’m goin’ to the grocers’, now – put the plate in the sink when you’re finished. Oh, and Georgie dear,” she called to him when she reached the doorway, “wash yourself a bit before you leave. You reek.”

“Okay,” he mumbled meekly, mouth full of toast and sausage. “Love you.”

“Love you too!” and the door shut behind her with a bang. It was similar to how Paul had left, but louder: as if to announce that she _would _return.

And Paul _had _returned, then? He’d stopped by this morning, just to ask of George’s mam whether she’d pass on to him that they were going to meet at his place. It made his heart both flutter and stop right there in his chest, where Paul’s palm-print was still pulsating slightly.

Fuckin’ branded.

George shoved the last of his toast in his mouth with a sigh, polishing off his tea, before getting up and placing his dishes in the sink. He sniffed himself carefully and immediately recoiled with a grimace: his mother was right, he _did _reek. Of cigarettes and old beer and old sweat and… was that vomit? But he hadn’t vomited?

He carefully climbed up the stairs as to not upset his now filled stomach and grabbed some clean clothes from his room before heading to the bathroom. He showered quickly, washing his hair and his body and not even taking the time to have a wank; he felt too _sad _for it anyway. After quickly dressing and not bothering to do his hair he was out the door thirty minutes later, guitar in one hand and pack of cigarettes in the other. The late-spring breeze was warm as it brushed through his wet locks and past his clammy skin, the sun bright and high in the sky. Had he not felt the unbelievable churn and discomfort in his stomach, caused by his current anxiety and the remnants of his excessive drinking of the night before, it would’ve been a perfect day.

He took his time as he made his way down the familiar path towards Paul’s childhood home. The red-bricked, terraced house that was 20 Forthlin Road slowly grew in size as he approached, and before he knew it, he’d made his way through the tiny front yard and was knocking on the front door.

Paul’s da’, Jim, opened the door and looked at him with a fond smile. _He likes you more than me, _Paul’d said with a sheepish grin on some occasions, and judging by the way Jim’s eyes twinkled as he gently ushered him inside, that statement was probably not that far from the truth. Jim genuinely liked George, probably because he was younger and less troublesome than _John, _and it’d always been the thing George could hold above John’s head without feeling to guilty in the end. He relished in the feeling of being at least better in the eyes of Paul’s father; but oh well, Paul had the tendency to rebel against his dad every now and then.

“’ey there lad!” John called out as soon as he entered the living room, and to George’s delight he actually looked about as bad as George felt with fluffy, messy, un-styled hair and dark circles under his eyes. “What a night, huh?”

“Fuckin’ _wild,_ son,” he answered with a small smirk, and he felt a bit pleased at John’s light-hearted cackle. John turned back to his happy chatter with Paul as George slowly took a seat across the two of them, took his guitar out of its case, and started to tune it.

_“Hey,”_ John then said; George slowly looked up from his strings, raising one eyebrow questioningly. There was a smug yet proud grin on John’s face and his almond-shaped eyes shone as he gestured towards George’s neck. Paul looked a tad bit pale. “Ye found someone then?”

George blinked. “Hm?”

“You’ve got a hickey the size of planet Earth on yer neck, mate,” was the smirking clarification. George’s hand shot up to his neck, feeling- “a badge of honour, I say!”

“I’m gonna go take a look,” he muttered, ignoring Paul’s wide-eyed gaze and John’s grinning face and suddenly he was in the McCartney’s bathroom, inspecting his neck in the tiny mirror. Sure enough, there it was: a big, purplish bruise between his jaw and his earlobe, a mere memory of Paul’s nibbling adventure on his bed. His heart raced and he gripped the sink tightly, trying to get his breathing under control.

It was weird how he’d _known _the kiss had happened, but it hadn’t been a certain, fixed incident in history until he saw the hickey. He was _branded _again, either unintentional or intentional because Paul had also been drunk but a little less so than George had been - but he’d _branded _George twice in one night. One he didn’t know about, and one that he _did _know about because he’d actually attached his mouth to his skin right there. George stared at his tired reflection in the mirror and touched the bruise with shaky fingers.

He rubbed. It didn’t come off.

George didn’t return to the living room until about thirty seconds later, when John yelled _stop starin’ at yer nose and get back ‘ere! _from downstairs and he’d noticed two small pimples on his right temple. John was still wiggling his eyebrows as George sat down in his previous spot, blank-faced and trying to get his heartbeat to slow the fuck down. Paul was already ignoring him, dancing his fingers across the fabric covering John’s knee.

“Issa beauty, though,” John whistled, leaning in a little closer to take a good look at the hickey. “Christ. Must’ve had some strong teeth.”

Paul choked on air.

“You alright?” John muttered with a smile, clapping him on the back. “Jealous that yours didn’t have strong teeth, then, son?”

“Maybe she didn’t get the opportunity,” George grumbled through gritted teeth, mouth pulled in smile that he was sure probably looked more like a grimace. “Maybe he fucked off too soon-”

“She said some weird stuff,” Paul interrupted through his coughing. He still wasn’t looking at George, but at John instead, and John wiped the tears in Paul’s eyes away with a smile. “So I darted. Rather have you nibble on me, mate.”

John flushed bright red and started laughing hysterically, and Paul grinned at him adoringly. He managed to be both disgustingly in love with John and stubbornly _not _in love with George at the same time, successfully ignoring his best friend and making him feel like shit in the process.

It was apparent, really, what the future outcome would be. John and Paul weren’t just _John and Paul,_ they were John-and-Paul, two geniuses, a married couple, _soulmates. _They couldn’t stop touching each other in one way or another, every time they were in the same room it was a hand on a shoulder, or a fist against a bicep, or a finger on a knee. Shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, leg to leg. When they looked at each other there was this adoration, this mutual respect. They considered themselves to be equals, and though George knew for certain they liked him being ‘round, they didn’t consider him to be on equal footing as them.

It would never be Paul-and-George anymore. It wouldn’t even be John-Paul-and-George.

And honestly, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be fine with that. 


	2. the alternative ending.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Fuck,_ did he know what Paul meant – it was what he was experiencing every single bloody day, this all-consuming emotion somewhere in between obsession and admiration, this burn deep in his chest, the feeling of looking at his mate on a sunny day after swimming and seeing the golden light hit his face in the gentlest of ways, reflecting off the droplets of water clinging to those fucking lashes of his and feeling like he’d been hit by a train. _He knew._  
**  
An alternative ending, detailing what should have happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. a whole THIRTEEN days ago i reblogged this ask-thing for fanficwriters, and the ever so lovely [rufusrant](https://rufusrant.tumblr.com/) asked me to rewrite the ending to my most angsty fic of unrequited love as of yet.  
i, of course, became incredibly enthusiastic and started to plot it right away.  
it somehow didn't flow as easily as the original _branded_ did. i suppose that was because _branded_ had always meant to end sadly, and it was hard to write an ending that didn't seem too unnatural and weird in the flow of things. i sincerely hope it doesn't.  
it's longer than the actual ending. had i used this in the original, the fic would've been about 1500 words longer. not much, but hey; this took me 13 days to put together.  
beta-ed by my feral babe, [lexi](https://killer-qu33n-of-disaster.tumblr.com/). she said it was fine and i believe her.  
please do enjoy!
> 
> the pieces of text that are fully in italics are part of the original fic.

_“Is this- I don’t-” Paul bit down on his neck; George’s hips involuntarily bucked, and the next words came out in a panting whine. “I don’t **understand-”**_

_“Don’t understand what?” Paul said gruffly, own hands now exploring the skinny figure underneath George’s shirt, fingers leaving tracks of fire in their wake. “Reckon this is a perfectly clear situation, love, we’re snoggin’-”_

_“Paulie, you-”_

_“Me?”_

_“What about… what about-” he took a deep breath as Paul’s ever-curious fingers brushed his crotch, cheeks flaming at this point. “I thought – **John.”**_

Paul immediately stilled, slowly pulling his hand away and lifting his head from George’s neck. He stared down at George from his straddling position, quiff no longer a quiff and now no more than a mussed up, half-greasy halo around his perfect face. His cheeks had reddened and his lips had bruised, breath coming out in short pants and a frown pulling his perfect eyebrows together. He looked curious and confused, _adorably _so, head tilting as a puppy would.

“What about John?” he asked quietly. His hands were resting on George’s chest now, completely silent, fingertips burning through the cotton like the lit end of a cigarette. “Why would ye-”

It felt like a bucket of ice-water was suddenly thrown over his head. “I- I thought- you-” he stammered, feeling incredibly sobered up, and he sat up slightly. His heart was _hammering _in his chest. _“I dunno-”_

Paul hadn’t moved when George had, face suddenly a whole lot closer. “No, tell me,” he countered, still gentle, still soft. “Tell me. What about _John, _Georgie?”

“I- I think he likes you, and I think you like him,” was the answer. George swallowed drily, gaze flitting between Paul’s eyes and mouth. _“Like _like.”

_“You think I’m queer for John?”_

“No!” George said, answering too quickly to properly process what Paul had just asked him. “…yes? Maybe?” he breathed in shakily. “I _dunno, _Paul…”

Paul swallowed and averted his eyes. He looked nervous all of a sudden, breathing through flared nostrils and clenching and unclenching his jaw methodically. _“Well,”_ Paul finally muttered, “funny, that. I dunno either.”

And for one long, heart-shattering moment that was all that Paul said, and George was absolutely convinced he’d cocked up. Why couldn’t he keep his stupid mouth shut for once? Why couldn’t he leave those bothersome _“but I’m confused”-_thoughts behind and go along with whatever activity Paul’d had in mind? Why had he even drunk so much in the first place, knowing that it made his mouth loose and his feelings more intense?

“It’s like-” Paul spoke up again, frowning, looking like he was thinking hard. “It’s like… whatever I feel for ‘im is… I tried to convince meself it’s friendship. I really tried. But it’s so much more… _intense. _It’s like it could swallow me _whole, _y’know?”

Yes, he did. _Fuck, _did he know what Paul meant – it was what he was experiencing every single bloody _day, _this all-consuming emotion somewhere in between obsession and admiration, this burn deep in his chest, the feeling of looking at his mate on a sunny day after swimming and seeing the golden light hit his face in the gentlest of ways, reflecting off the droplets of water clinging to those _fucking _lashes of his and feeling like he’d been hit by a train. _He knew._

Paul’s tongue darted out subconsciously, wetting that bitten bottom lip, and he didn’t seem to notice the shaky little sigh George produced. “Sometimes he smiles and my heart feels fit to burst. It’s _not _a fuckin’- it’s not a platonic feeling. I know that. I _knew _that, jus’ didn’t wanna accept it, ‘cos… ‘cos that’s _queer, _and we don’t do _queer, _and I hoped that it was just a fuckin’ _phase. _That I just admired ‘im too much, that that’s why I felt giddy like a bloody _bird _whenever ‘e gives me a compliment. And when I started to realise it wasn’t, a fuckin’ _prayed _it was just _him.” _Paul’s gaze met his. He looked scared, almost, eyes too wet to be neutral. He looked too much like a deer caught in headlights. “But then there’s _you.”_

George couldn’t bloody _breathe._

“You’re there,” Paul stuttered, “with yer perfect fuckin’ _face _and _hair _and _humour _and you’re _there, _next to me, not a hundred fuckin’ mental miles away with yer Bardot-lookalike girl and yer art school mates. And you listen and you help and you push me out of my comfort zone more gently than John does, and you don’t loudly proclaim anythin’ queer is disgusting, you just roll your eyes when John does and then you _smile _at me and _every single fuckin’ time _my heart skips a beat and that _confuses me.”_ He paused, took a deep breath. “I thought- I thought it was _just _John. I _hoped _it was just John, because that would mean it’s _just _John, no-one else. But it’s _you _as well.”

Oh. _Oh. Oh my God-_

_“Oh.” _George managed to utter.

“An’ lately,” Paul continued, voice pained, “whenever I’m with John, all I can think about is you. And I fuckin’- I fuckin’ don’t mind it at all.” Another pause, some squinting of glassy hazel eyes. “You should close yer mouth, Georgie. You’ll catch flies.”

George exhaled through his nose, feeling a weird mix of elated and emotional. Paul liked him. Paul liked him like he liked Paul, he _liked _him and he didn’t seem to be taking the piss, didn’t seem to be lying. The entire situation was completely and utterly insane, the concept of it sitting in George’s head like a greasy, sticky batter of confusion and happiness and disbelief. The tightening of his belly and the racing of his heart was so akin to feeling of heartbreak that he felt like he might cry.

This _had _to be a joke, _had _to be one of those cruel ones homophobes used to figure out which one of the lads was a fag. But Paul didn’t have it in him to do that, was too much of an _“let people live” _kinda lad for him to pull a joke like that. It had to be a _dream _then, one of those ones that had him wake up to that disgusting feeling of peace - a feeling that would only be shattered as reality set in and the hangover would make its presence known. It had to be some kind of nightmare. His mam always said that ‘er lads ran a fever after drinking too much, so that the body could burn off all that alcohol. That _had _to be it. A fucking fever dream. Paul kissed him and confessed to him in some sad dream that his mind made up for the sheer purpose of torturing itself and this wasn’t _real. _It fucking _couldn’t be. _

“Oh,” he repeated softly. His voice was shaking a bit, and his eyes burned. “Okay.”

“Are you crying?” dream-Paul murmured, and he reached out to wipe his thumb over the skin under George’s eye; his breathing hitched at the contact. “Why are ye crying?”

A laugh bubbled up and he allowed it to fall from his mouth, sounding watery and sad and happy all at the same time. The totally-not-real-Paul kept wiping with a worried frown. “Because it’s _insane,” _he blubbered, still laughing. “I’m- I _must _be a bloody nutter. This isn’t real. I’m dreamin’.”

“It’s real, George.”

“Well it _can’t _be,” he shot back. Fake Paul retreated his hands, rested them on George’s chest instead. “You’re- I’ve been in love with ye ever since you kissed me, years ago now, and the only one you’ve been starin’ at since then was _John. _Like- like he’s yer _world.”_

The mentally-constructed Paul stayed silent, pursing his lips. 

“I’m gunna wake up in the morning” George continued, “with a bitch of a hangover and you gone, and then at noon I’ll be in yer sitting room with you and John in yer own little bubble and me alone. And I’m gunna have to accept that, ‘cos it’s never going to be any different. Even when I’m not okay with it.” A tear dripped from his jaw onto his collar. “That’s it.”

_“That’s it?” _Geo-you’re-pathetic-he’s-fake-Paul was still frowning, still pursing his lips, and he sighed through his nose. “That’s what you think?”

“It is.”

The dream-version of his mate stared at him for a few more seconds, big hazel eyes swirling with emotion he couldn’t quite decipher, before he nodded. “Alright.”

George’s heart broke a little, involuntarily. Which wasn’t right, ‘cos this wasn’t real. “Alright?”

_“Alright,”_ dream-Paul said, and he was smiling. It was slightly unnerving. “We’ll go to sleep and see in the morning whether yer little theory is correct or not.” 

George swallowed, wondering if he was wrong to assume that this was all part of his drunk dreaming, but he knew that if he had the chance to not hurt himself he should take it with both hands. “Alright.”

With that gentle, unnerving smile, dream-Paul pushed George onto his back and climbed off him to grab the blankets George had crumpled up at the foot of his bed when he got up this morning. He pulled them over their legs and laid down himself, curling around George with a content little sigh. It was no different from the way they’d usually sleep after a night at the Cavern, all tangled up and and clingy, but it did _feel _different somehow. It was still almost uncomfortably warm as always, and even in his dreams Paul still smelt like beer and cigarettes and sweat like always, but the contentment George associated with the action felt different. It felt _real. _No longer fabricated by fickle fantasy and forced ignorance, no longer accompanied by an annoying voice in the back of his mind whispering about how he was living in a lie. It didn’t make any sense.

“Night, Georgie,” dream-Paul whispered, and he stretched to place a real-feeling kiss on George’s jaw. “See ye in the morning.”

_“You won’t,” _went his thoughts, but he settled his head against dream-Paul’s anyway. Black hair tickled his cheekbone. “G’night, love.”

_When George awoke to sunlight that felt like drops of acid, a stomach that seemed to have twisted itself into a knot, limbs feeling like gummies, and a head being pounded on by a hammer, he didn't know where he was for a brief second. _

_Soon enough though, the cotton he'd stuck his nose into smelled like his mam's laundry detergent and the wall across from him was filled with posters and pictures he'd taped to the old, faded wallpaper once. Even in his foggy, groggy, hungover state he was pretty sure that Elvis poster had been put up last week with a lot of swearing on his part and a lot of laughter on- on- _

_on Paul and John's part. _

_Paul. _

_George shot upright, ignoring the way his stomach churned and groaned and whined like his nan without 'er sherry on a Friday night, and swung his legs over the bed. He was still dressed in his clothes from yesterday; his drainies felt particularly uncomfortable and itchy, his shirt was really fuckin’ sticky, and by the feeling of it his hair was somewhat still in place. He'd bloody well hope so too, considering the amount of time he'd spent on front of the mirror the night before and how much gel he'd plonked into it - but it was honestly the least of his worries, now._

As he set on the edge of his bed, the dream came back to him so aggressively it felt like he’d been punched in the gut. There was an immediate feeling of nausea spreading through his entire body, thick and sticky and overwhelming like syrup, and the deep, careful breaths he was taking to will it down weren’t helping. Why, pray tell, had he drunk so much again? Moreover, what on earth had his brain been thinking? Was this his thing now, mentally torturing himself through dreams after having had too much to drink? The mere memory of Paul tucked against him with a soft, plump mouth pressed against his jaw made his heart clench, because he was certain it’d never be a reality. _That _was the painful part. A dream would never be more than that, a dream - it’d never be part of his actual life, no more than a silly and pathetic fantasy he thought up whenever he felt particularly lonely. Just fucking _wank _material.

_God, _he felt like shit. Though the nausea slowly dissipated and he could finally move without the fear of throwing up, his legs felt incredibly unsteady when he carefully rose from his bed, head pounding uncomfortably as the blood rushed down. He stumbled, having to use the wall as leverage and preventing himself from collapsing. He’d never felt quite so shitty before

A leather jacket was draped over the chair next to his bed, which was very weird. He vaguely remembered hanging his on the coatrack in the hallway while Paul tried to help him balance, and it’d been _Paul _who had still been wearing his jacket when they’d entered his bedroom. He hadn’t been that drunk that he’d dreamt _everything, _had he? That would be just ridiculous.

...right?

He somehow managed to run down the stairs without tripping and falling over his own two feet, stepping into the kitchen with an ease that surprised himself, and managed to rail in an audible gasp. 

James Paul McCartney, the guy he was convinced he’d dreamt of kissing last night, was sitting at his mum’s kitchen table with a cup of tea and a plateful of sausage and toast, chatting casually with Mrs Harrison. His hair was messy and he was wearing the clothes from last night as he laughed and chatted and charmed his way into George’s mum’s heart, like he always did. Mum’d never said it out loud, but her favourite of the Quarrymen was Paul, and never before had George wished more that that wasn’t the case. 

He was _here. _In the flesh. A real, physical apparition of Paul was sitting at the kitchen table and eating breakfast, and that meant that his presence hadn’t been some kind of embarrassingly desperate fever-dream. And that meant-

_Did it?_

“Morning,” he rasped as soon as he’d caught his breath and train of thought, and two heads simultaneously turned to smile at him.

“Afternoon,” mum corrected gently, nodding at the clock next to the cross above the door, and he repeated her correction quietly before taking a seat next to a smugly smiling Paul. 

“Slept well?” Paul muttered from his seat next to George, dipping a piece of his toast in some sausage grease. George dared to glance at him and felt himself flush the lad’s smirk. “Slept like a babe meself, actually. Comfortable pillows you’ve got, Mrs Harrison-”

“It’s _Louise _to you, lad,” she scolded with a fond smile, placing a plate filled with toast, sausage, an egg in front of George. “You know that. And ‘ere ye go, love,” she then said, combing George’s fringe back with her fingers before leaning back to fetch him some tea. “Nothin’ like soaking up last night’s mistakes with some hearty food, aye?”

“Aye,” he replied, immediately bowing his head to break off a piece of toast and scoop up some of the egg, but also to avoid looking at his mate. “God bless, ma, thanks. An’ I slept just fine, thank you, Macca.”

“I’m glad,” Paul said, taking a sip of his tea. “Though I could’ve guessed that, with how loud you’d been snorin’.”

“I do _not _snore,” he immediately protested, head snapping in Paul’s direction before figuring out the lad’s little plan. He regretted it instantly, breath audibly hitching at the sight of his mate in the warm afternoon light coming in from the kitchen windows, and realising just how smitten he actually was. Paul, the handsome bastard, stared back with that annoying, knowing smirk of his, big eyes twinkling in amusement and contentment. George turned back to his food with an embarrassed scowl. _“I don’t,” _he muttered nasally, stuffing sausage into his mouth. _“Your _little sensitive ears just can’t handle anythin’, as per usual.”

Paul just giggled in reply and took another sip of tea. 

“Well,” mum said after a moment of silence, flitting around the kitchen as she gathered her bags, “I’ll be off, now. Shopping ain’t doin’ itself, now, is it? You boys leave the dishes in the sink, and both clean up, won’t you, lovies? You reek.”

_“Do we?” _George muttered with a grimace, around the same time Paul answered with a cheery _“alright Louise!”. _She smiled at the both of them, pressing hard kisses to the top of their heads- and she was gone. 

George sniffed himself briefly and immediately recoiled, taking a big gulp of tea to get rid of the smell lingering at the back of his throat. “We reek.”

“Do we?”

“Yes,” George muttered in reply, returning to stuffing egg and toast into his mouth. “I do, at least, so that means you must smell as well, y’know.”

“We should shower then,” Paul said, gobbling up the rest of his breakfast/lunch with the last of his tea, and standing up to put his plate in the sink. “Hurry up.”

And despite him rarely taking any of Paul’s demands to heart, he hurried up. The egg and toast disappeared first, followed by the last bits of his sausage, and he threw back his tea. Paul looked awfully satisfied when he stood up to place his own plate in the sink, which was something George tried to tactfully ignore. Paul just liked it when he got his way. 

It didn’t take long before they were upstairs and getting ready to shower. Though Paul was taller than him by an inch _(or, “less than an inch”, as he always snapped when someone commented on their height difference)_, borrowing clothes was never a particularly big problem. Mum didn’t mind it, as long as the clothes returned washed and ironed; besides, George had developed a habit of turning up in Paul’s trousers as well. It was for that reason that the thought of Paul wearing his pants, his trousers, or his shirt should _not _have felt as weird as it did. It made his lower belly tingle somehow, even though he was still not sure whether that _happening _last night was a dream. Paul had stayed, but had his mind not just made up the kiss? The confession? 

“Towels in the bathroom, aren’t they?” Paul asked casually, pulling at his collar to sniff himself. His nose wrinkled adorably, like it always did when he smelled something he didn’t quite like, and George had to smile at the sight.

“Y-yeah,” he murmured, averting his eyes to fumble with the clean socks in his hands. “Bathroom, yeah. Dirty ones in the bin next to it.”

“Right,” Paul answered, and then he was silent. 

There was a tension between them that wasn’t natural, that wasn’t there usually as Paul hated awkward silences and always attempted to fill them with smalltalk, and the obvious absence made George feel like he was on edge. All of his muscles were tense, upper back aching in that uncomfortable fashion that usually only happened when he walked home on a cold night and tried to keep himself from shivering. He didn’t even dare to turn his head to look at Paul. Why was he silent? What was he thinking of? Had he done something embarrassing in his sleep? Had he moaned Paul’s or, _God forbid, _John’s name? 

He swallowed. His throat was dry. 

“You okay?” he then asked, voice raspy from the nerves and brief disuse. “Want to shower first?”

It happened very suddenly. 

He was pushed against the door in the blink of an eye, wrists locked in rough fingers and eyes locked in an intense gaze. Paul, the bastard, had always been strangely attractive when he was concentrating. Of course, George found Paul attractive regardless of his level of concentration, but there was something about intense eyes in an otherwise innocent and youthful-looking face that tugged at his gut. Whether Paul’s concentration was on his guitar, on John, or on birds, it’d never before failed to get George hot and bothered during moments he didn’t want to be and _fuck, _this was _not _the moment to get excited-

“We kissed this morning,” Paul informed him casually, voice weirdly calm in comparison to how red his cheeks were getting. “You kissed me, and I kissed back, and then we… I _said _something.” A pause. “D’ye remember?”

George blinked rapidly, a mix of disbelief, panic, and excitement spreading through his body. His stomach hurt. “I- I think- that _wasn’t _a dream?”

Perfect eyebrows shot up ‘till Paul’s hairline. “A _dream?”_

“Well it wouldn’t be the _first time-”_

“There’s a _hickey _on your neck, George,” Paul stated, sounding incredibly incredulous, and George’s heart stuttered at that statement. _“My _hickey. Did you even _look in the mirror _when you got up?”

This was getting ridiculous. _“Why on earth would I-”_

Paul shook his head, greasy hair swaying with the movement. “Doesn’t matter. _We kissed, _you said you liked me, I said I liked ye back, and I’d like to know what ‘appens now.”

George frowned. “We keep it to ourselves?”

“Well, _yes, _you git,” Paul rolled his eyes. “It’s illegal, remember? It’s just-” he sighed through his nose, leaning in a bit closer. “What _other _things will we keep to ourselves?”

“I-”

“‘Cos I’d really like to kiss you now,” he confessed quietly, “and I’d like it- I’d like it if we kept _that _between us, y’know.”

Oh. 

_Oh. _

_“Oh,” _George squeaked, face heating up when that gaze slid down to his mouth. “Okay. I- _yes.”_

Paul dove in with a content sigh, mouth pushing against George’s in a way that felt unnatural and dangerous in the light of day. The kiss wasn’t necessarily as hungry as it had been hours before, and wasn’t as soft as it had been the first time, but it was exactly what George needed in that moment - and then some. 

Slow but sure was the movement of Paul’s lips against his own, with a certain confidence behind it when Paul managed to deepen the kiss. George’s heart thrummed in his ribcage with nerves as he tilted his head, granting his mate all the access he required, and his entire body starting to tingle when Paul released his wrists to grasp his cheeks instead. _God, _this was _exhilarating, _even better now that he was sober and the alcohol-induced numbness of his face had faded. Paul tasted like egg and sausage and tea, hints of the night before masked and washed away with his late breakfast. 

Paul pulled back, breathing hard, and leaned his forehead against George’s. George, in turn, let out a shaky sigh. 

“So,” Paul whispered. “You stink.”

The difference between Paul’s statement and action was absurd, and George laughed loudly, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. He _did _stink, but so did Paul, and they’d just _kissed. _

_Sober. _

“And you smell like an old sock,” he replied, looking back down to stare into Paul’s twinkling eyes. He smiled brightly, body warm. “Let’s get on with it.”

Paul pressed one last kiss to his mouth, cheeks bright red, and leaned back. “Well… you first?”

Showering was, sadly, not a shared activity. George went first, opting out of a wank because of how quickly he wanted to wash up, and as soon as he’d opened the door Paul rushed past him to use the last of the hot water. Paul wasn’t finished by the time George had gotten dressed, and it took another ten minutes of absentmindedly playing some familiar chord progressions to keep himself occupied for Paul to _finally _emerge from the bathroom and appear in George’s bedroom with wet hair and a black t-shirt sticking to his chest. 

“Sounds good, that,” he muttered, picking up his leather jacket and putting his arms through the sleeves. “Anything in the works?”

“Nah, you’re the virtuoso ‘ere, Macca,” George replied, taking his guitar out of his lap to put it in its case. “You took an awfully long time. Didya have a wank or somethin’?”

Paul swiftly turned around and walked towards the stairs. “I promised John we’d be practicing at mine at one, so we better go.”

George couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across his face. He jumped up, taking his guitar case in one hand and speeding off after Paul. _“You did, _didn’t ye? Randy _bastard-”_

“It’s _past _one already and I’m sure da’ will have let ‘im in, but I’m not sure how long those two’ll survive without us there as buffer.” Paul had reached the bottom of the stairs, already pulling on his boots. As soon as George had reached the hallway he spotted the redness of the tips of Paul’s ears, and his grin widened. “You know ‘ow they are-”

“Jim likes me better an’ John can’t handle that,” George concluded, putting down his case and leaning down to step into his own boots and tie them up. “You _totally _wanked in the shower.”

Paul looked at him as he opened the door, waiting for George to pull on his jacket and walk out as well. It wasn’t until George had locked the front door and they’d reached the pavement that he spoke up again.

“Tha’s right.”

_“What?” _George laughed at the mischievous twinkle in Paul’s eyes and the consistent red flush on his cheeks. “What’s right? All of it?”

Paul just grinned. 

They left to walk down the familiar path to Paul’s home, closer to each other than usual. George’s shoulder burned whenever Paul’s brushed against it, right through two layers of cotton and two layers of leather, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was _nice, _reassurance that Paul was there, that it wasn’t a dream. Paul turned to look at him and flushed when he grinned cheekily, ignoring the way his heart raced.

Paulie’d branded him, but George had left just as much of a mark as well. 

It was alright, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :))))

**Author's Note:**

> The time period is from July 1957(when Paul and John met, basically) to spring of 1959, a month or two before Julia Lennon died. During this period of time before they went to Hamburg in August of 1960, the Quarrymen were a three-man-band consisting out of three guitarst: John, Paul, and George. They'd get random drummers to drum for them whenever they had a performance.  
According to multiple sources, Paul and George met when George was already 14, which places the year of meeting in 1957. Other sources say that George knew Mary for a little while, which makes him 13 or 12 and means they met in 1955/56. It's very vague. Disregarding the vagueness, they became very good friends in that short period of time(some old friends recall them as always being together), so I imagine Paul meeting John must've been kind of weird for George. It's always struck me as odd that John and Paul are credited as the tightest duo, and George (and Ringo) are always being ignored - even though Paul and George and been best friends for longer.  
Anyway, enough of my rambling :) I sincerely hoped you enjoyed the fic, which surprisingly only took me a couple of days to complete. Oh, the joys and freedom illness brings-  
xxx


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